


The Penultimate Resolution

by daasgrrl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crack, Gen, This always bothered me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-21
Updated: 2008-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been five days, nothing was working, and House had become so frustrated that half the hospital had been unwillingly drawn into a high stakes, high-pressure game of <em>Name That Disease</em>. Takes place after the events of “Birthmarks”, S05x04.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Penultimate Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks very much to [](http://blackmare.livejournal.com/profile)[**blackmare**](http://blackmare.livejournal.com/) for coming to the rescue and to [](http://bironic.livejournal.com/profile)[**bironic**](http://bironic.livejournal.com/) for an assist. Remaining incomprehensibility is mine.
> 
> Inspired by a comment [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) made regarding her [post-ep](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/1007299.html#cutid1) to the above episode. I had been so distracted by the H/W that I hadn’t realized it was the perfect opportunity to ‘fix’ something about _House_ that has been bothering me for _seasons_. Originally intended as a drabble but developed a will of its own. Any resemblances to other fanfic OCs, living or dead, is entirely coincidental - well, as far as it goes *g*.

House sat in his office armchair, legs up on the footstool, absently watching the sun set through the vertical blinds. One hand rested on the thin file that lay on the armrest, closed. He already knew everything that was in it.

Over the years, a small collection of files had built up in House’s bottom drawer, the ones he kept closest to hand despite knowing their entire contents inside and out. These were the patients he remembered best; unlike the others, they all had names and faces and the memories of failure attached to them. One or two cases had eventually found their way back into the main archives, but he never forgot them. And now there was a new file, smooth under his fingers, that of a 16-year-old currently lingering in the ICU. A file that might well be joining his collection by the following morning.

It had been five days, nothing was working, and House had become so frustrated that half the hospital had been unwillingly drawn into a high stakes, high-pressure game of _Name That Disease_. Now the patient was in a coma, and they were all completely out of ideas. And time. House watched the last rays of sunlight disappear, his surroundings subsiding into an uneasy darkness. Maybe if he waited long enough, someone would burst into his office with a new hypothesis that would miraculously prove correct. Or maybe he should just open that drawer and stick the file in it right now.

House had always thought that one of the disadvantages to being an atheist was that there was nobody to pray to at times like these. It wouldn't save the patient, but at least he could try to shift some of the blame. But if he were going to be reduced to blind faith, there was still one last secular resort yet to be tried, even if it promised to be every bit as humiliating and potentially useless as a late-stage religious conversion. It was something he would have preferred to avoid, but at this point it was all he had left. He grabbed the file, pushed himself out of the armchair, and went home.

He kept the number on a scrap of paper tossed somewhere into the jumble of a desk drawer. The number itself would have been easy enough to memorize, but he had deliberately made no effort to do so. Not because he didn’t treasure it, because in his own way, he did, but because he had never wanted to think of it as a serious option. But right now his proposed alternatives mostly involved dangerous quantities of alcohol and hoping his subconscious would come up with something before the kid died. House rummaged briefly through the drawer before taking out the entire thing and dumping its contents onto the desk. He plucked the number from the pile of rubble; blue pen on a strip of ragged-edged lined paper, a Jacksonville area code and the single annotation: _M_.

  
***

  
Two weeks after his dad’s funeral, after the DNA results, the truth of his paternity - or lack thereof - had finally begun to sink in. And while his 12-year-old logic had been unquestionably sound, the identity of his biological father had yet to be proven. All he had was his main suspect: Col. Frank Castille, formerly of the 1st Medical Battalion, Fleet Marine Force, and family friend. Amongst, possibly, other things. House should probably have left well enough alone, but that wasn’t the way he was made. Now that it was finally established that his dad wouldn’t be speaking to him again no matter what he did, he had to _know_.

Coming up with a plan and tracking down Castille’s number had been easy. Summoning up the will to punch in the numbers had been a different matter. The first call went unanswered, which was something House hadn’t counted on. He knew Castille was a retired widower; really, what else did he have to do besides sit around in the evenings and answer his phone? House left it for three commercial breaks, and then tried again, hastily muting the TV when the line picked up.

“Castille. My insurance is fine. So is my insulation.”

House had never done more than exchange a few words with the man while in family company, but he recognized the voice, with its deep, deceptively lazy drawl.

“There’s a register, you know.”

“I like hanging up on people.” There was a pause. “Besides, I’ve noticed _they_ rarely call back.”

Castille’s tone was pointed enough for House to realize he was being played. He pushed back the flicker of irritation, and tried to focus on the call.

“This is… it’s Gregory House. John House’s…”

“Uh-huh. Well, it took you long enough.”

“I’m calling because…”

“I know why you’re calling. The answer is yes.”

At that point House knew he had completely lost control of the conversation. The man was more annoying than he could possibly have imagined. “Do you also know what I had for breakfast?”

“From what I hear from Blythe, probably a Vicodin, straight. Maybe with coffee.”

“It was two, _actually_.” House could almost hear the shrug of indifference from Castille. From his father. Or at least, his sperm donor. By now, any remaining doubts on that front had completely dissipated.

“So, how long did it take you to work it out?” Castille asked.

“I was twelve.”

“In that case, I congratulate you.” There was a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice, and House was suddenly furious.

“So that’s it? You knew. For almost fifty years. And you never…”

House trailed off, abruptly realizing how stupid he sounded. Short of some crazy move like talking his mother into a divorce and remarriage, what _was_ Castille supposed to have done? Been around a little more, maybe. But his own family had moved around so much, House couldn’t even blame him for that. He wasn’t even sure if his _mother_ knew, if she’d ever counted the days, ever looked at the shape of her newborn’s face, brushed his hair lovingly over the little red mark on his scalp without attaching any significance to it. She wasn’t stupid. She must know. But he already knew that he could never ask her.

“I don’t need to justify myself to you.” Despite the slight huskiness of age, Castille’s voice still held the hard edge of authority. “But I will anyway. There was no point in breaking up two near-functional families for the sake of your biological correctness. John was as good a father to you as I would have been. Probably better.”

“I’m beginning to see that.” House’s tone was more forgiving than his words.

“I kept track of you. I know where you’ve been, what you do. And whenever I see Blythe she never shuts up about you. You’ve done okay for yourself.”

“Apart from being a miserable cripple.”

“Oh, cry me a river. Or go complain to Martin, he’d enjoy it.”

“Who?” House tried to remember a relevant face and failed. “Although if the answer includes the words ‘life partner’, I really don’t need to know.”

There was a long pause, then a dry chuckle. “He never was one for social occasions, even when he was still on his feet. And I guess you were always either too young to remember or too old to care about his existence. But if you had me investigated, they did a pretty poor job of it. You really weren’t sure, were you?”

There seemed no point in denying it now. “No. I just looked you up. But I had the whole thing planned. I was going to work my way up to stealing some DNA.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“So can I assume we’re not just talking some random cripple you think I’d care about for some reason?”

“Martin was born in 1952,” Castille said quietly. “Three years too soon for Salk and Sabin. And of course he was the lucky one in a hundred. Maria always blamed me for it, even though I told her I was just a doctor, not God. I told Blythe to make sure you got the shots, wherever you were. I did that much for you.”

“For all the good it did me,” House snapped reflexively, but his mind was elsewhere, processing. He was old enough to have seen the effects of polio first-hand in the various countries he’d lived in. Ninety-nine percent of cases made a near-complete recovery, but that was of little comfort to the remaining ones. Of course, there were some like the missionary kid at one of his schools, who had borne his withered left arm with the pride of sacrifice. House had studiously avoided him, but not because of his disability. “Two for two. You must be proud.”

“It was a pity, really,” Castille was saying, “because he’s a better doctor than you’ll ever be.”

“Oh, of _course_ he is,” House said, his attention instantly diverted. “That’s why he’s so well-known. The world famous… what’s-his-name. I’ve read every article he’s ever published. Wait, no I haven’t. Because I’ve never heard of him.”

Castille chuckled. “And how many articles have _you_ authored lately?”

“I have minions.”

“It might not have made a difference to him, anyway. He hates people even worse than I hear you do, so it’s the perfect excuse to stay at home in his chair and avoid them. He’s always said people just get in the way of practicing decent medicine. But he reads. I’m not sure he does anything _but_ read. And think. He’s read just about every medical journal, study, article and transcript ever written, and what he can’t read for himself he gets translated so he _can_ read it. He writes the occasional public letter when they’ve really screwed up the research, but he mostly gets dismissed as a crank.”

“I can’t think why.” The hell of it was that he couldn’t read Castille well enough to tell if he were being made the butt of another of the man’s private jokes.

“Believe what you like. All I can say is that his talents have come in very handy to the US government over the years, in ways you’d never hear about. But never mind him; you called to hear about _you_. So, what else did you want to know?”

The conversation only lasted another ten minutes, but by the end of it House had found himself tearing a strip from a random sheet of paper and scribbling Martin’s purported number on it, just for kicks. He’d never called, though. There’d been no reason to.  But now, three months later, he rationalized to himself that it couldn’t hurt. At worst, it would provide him with a little light entertainment while his patient died.

The call picked up on the second ring.

“So, you finally got around to it.”

House didn’t even know why he was surprised - a lack of phone manners obviously ran in the family. Martin’s voice was softer, his drawl slightly more pronounced than his father’s. Technically, _their_ father’s, although House didn’t know if he’d ever think of the man in that way.

“I knew I should have gotten a private number,” House said, once again regretting the existence of caller ID. “Your father’s a tattle-tale.”

“You can start with the case history. That _is_ why you called, isn’t it?”

House supposed that was about the amount of warmth he should have expected. He rolled his eyes, but dutifully opened the folder and began: “Sixteen-year-old Caucasian male, originally showed up in the clinic on Wednesday with a high fever and difficulty breathing…

“I need the complete picture. Name? Date of birth?“

“Jason Melas, born August 18th, 1992.”

“Where? Be specific. Parents as well.”

“Princeton General, New Jersey. I’m afraid I can’t give you a _room number_.” House was unsurprised when his sarcasm had no impact whatsoever. “Mother is white, American-born, New Jersey, no further details. Father was born in Athens, Greece. Although what any of that has to do with...”

“Pregnancy complications, childhood history, allergies?”

  
***  
  
  
Two days later, when the patient had finally been discharged into the care of his grateful family, House once again stood in his living room, contemplating the scrap of paper in his hand. He should probably call the guy and thank him. _Should_ being the operative word. But that would only bore the both of them. Besides, he'd read about the outcome in Kutner's article, eventually.

House smiled briefly at the thought, and then opened the drawer, burying the number once more in the recesses of his desk.  
  
END  
  
[Note: If this fic entirely fails to make sense, you probably need [this link](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mycroft_Holmes).]


End file.
